The car came out of nowhere.

If it hadn’t been for the tears in her eyes, Mia may have spotted it sooner. Tears from the cold, not the argument she’d just had with her boyfriend, Fernando. But, by the time she’d blinked them away, it was too late. The kamikaze driver had veered across the road, heading straight for her. In a panic, she wrenched the handlebars to the left and swerved onto the pavement. The steep curb halted her momentum but propelled her forward, over the metal frame of her second-hand bicycle and onto the ground. She landed hard, grazing her hands and knees, the wind knocked out of her.

A shout made her turn. After sending her flying, the out-of-control vehicle had continued its deadly path and collided with another cyclist who’d been flung sideways off his bicycle and hit his face against the curb. His helmet rolled across the pavement, away from him. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his arm wouldn’t work. Blood poured from a gaping wound on his cheekbone, coating the entire left side of his face like some macabre Halloween mask.

“Are you okay?” She crawled towards him, her hands and knees on fire, but her legs too shaky to stand.

Wide-eyed with shock, he twisted his body until he was in a sitting position. 

“I’m not sure you should move,” she interjected.

“My arm,” he gasped. “I think it’s broken.”

She winced at the abnormal angle of his elbow. Definitely broken, but she didn’t want to alarm him more than necessary. His face was deathly pale against the dark tarmac, the expensive racing-bike a twisted mess underneath him.

“Please, stay still. I’ll call for help.”

She knelt beside him and wriggled out of her rucksack, which had stayed on her back during the fall. With trembling hands, she unzipped the front pocket to retrieve her mobile phone. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.” She attempted a reassuring smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. The blood from his face dripped off his chin, onto the curb and into the gutter. She put a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Kingston Hospital is down the road. It won’t take the ambulance long to get here.”

She prayed she was right. 

In the distance, they could hear the rush-hour cars as they whizzed up Kingston Hill. But here, in the residential side-street, it was quiet. No one had noticed the accident. No one had come out of their house to offer assistance.

Where was everybody?

The Mercedes had come to a stop up ahead, but the driver hadn’t cut the engine. The car idled.

What were they waiting for?

That’s when she noticed the blacked-out windows. She strained her eyes, but it was impossible to see who was driving. Frowning, she dialled 999.

The car began to reverse towards them.

About time. The least they can do is check we’re okay.

“My wallet. Get my wallet.” The cyclist pointed to a bulky, leather object lying in the gutter a few feet away.

Mia leaned over and picked it up. The 999 operator answered the call. She was about to speak when she realised the Mercedes was picking up speed. The cyclist froze, his good arm outstretched for the wallet, his eyes fixed on the reversing car.

“Hey!” She yelled a warning, but the car kept on coming. She dived out of the way, but the cyclist was too injured to move. There was a sickening thud as the back of the Mercedes hit him head on.

Mia screamed and shut her eyes. She didn’t want to look. Couldn’t look. There was no way anyone could have survived that. When she finally opened her eyes, it was as expected. The cyclist lay motionless in the gutter, his legs still wrapped around the frame of his buckled bicycle. His open eyes stared up at the sky as if he were gazing at the clouds.

The 999 operator spoke urgently into the phone, but Mia scarcely heard her. She felt sick. Spasms shot through her stomach as she bent over and dry heaved, but nothing came up.

Her gaze shifted to the black car that was performing a three-point turn in the narrow road.

What was going on? Why was it turning around?

The driver positioned the car so it faced her. Its headlights were blinding. The engine revved as they searched for first gear.

No, surely, he wasn’t going to…?

As the wheels began to spin, she scrambled to her feet and ran.

A horrific thought flashed through her head. Was this a terrorist attack like on Westminster Bridge where the driver’s sole purpose had been to mow down as many pedestrians as possible? Was that what she was caught up in? Some extremist plot?

But that didn’t make any sense. This was a quiet suburban street. There weren’t any pedestrians.

She glanced over her shoulder. The Mercedes was gaining speed. It would reach her within seconds. Up ahead was Queens Road, which led into Richmond Park through Kingston Gate.

Richmond Park closed its gates to traffic at sunset. Only the pedestrian gates remained open so cyclists, dog walkers, and ramblers could still gain access.

Mia thought fast. If she could make it to the park, the car wouldn’t be able to enter. She’d be safe.  If the driver wanted to follow her in, he’d have to do so on foot. Given the fact he’d just killed someone, that was unlikely.

She cut the corner into Queens Road, leapt over a low lavender hedge, and gained a few precious seconds.  The image of the dead cyclist flashed in her head as if a film stuck on a loop. His vacant eyes staring up at the sky. That’s what would happen to her if they caught her. Her chest heaved­ – she didn’t want to end up in a gutter. The terror threatened to overwhelm her, but she kept running, pumping her legs until they burned.

The Mercedes had made up ground on the straight and was right beside her now, matching her pace like a predator ready to swoop in for the kill. At any moment, it would swerve onto the pavement and bring her down. She glanced sideways at the car, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the only image she saw was her own distorted reflection in the dark window.

The wrought iron gates of Richmond Park were fifty yards ahead.

Come on, you can make it!

Weak street-lights illuminated the worn asphalt, showing her the way. The car began to swerve, but Mia anticipated it. She switched direction and darted behind the vehicle, across the road. The driver, caught by surprise, almost lost control but managed to steady the Mercedes and swing it back onto the road.

Now, the gates were only twenty yards away. With her breath coming in ragged gasps, Mia tore towards the park.

Ten yards…

The car ramped the pavement behind her. Its tyres growled on the uneven surface. The driver put their foot down in one last attempt to reach her, but it was too late. She grasped the cold iron bars of the pedestrian gate and rammed it open, twisted her body through the metal turnstile, and stumbled out the other side.

She was in.

There was a screech as the driver hit the brakes. The acrid smell of rubber wafted over to her on the cold night air. Mia stared at the Mercedes, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. None of the doors opened, no windows rolled down. The car just stared back at her, daring her to make a move. Except she wasn’t going to stick around. Whoever was driving that car had purposely killed the cyclist and attempted to murder her. Right now, her only instinct was to get as far away from them as possible. So she turned and ran along the gravel path towards a hilly clump of trees in the distance where she’d be hidden from view. Halfway up the hill, she glanced behind her at the car, expecting it to be gone.

Except it wasn’t.

The passenger door was open, and a man stood beside it, staring through the gate’s iron bars in her direction. If he was the passenger…

There are two of them.

She squinted into the twilight, but couldn’t make out his features. He was tall, however, with very dark, almost ebony skin. His stance was aggressive, his hands on his hips.

The sinking feeling that this was not over yet settled in her gut, making her insides twist with fear. Pushing it aside, she turned to continue her dash up the hill. 

“Oomph!”

She collided with a jogger running in the opposite direction, the wind knocked out of her. For the second time that day, she fell to her knees, grimacing as the gravel scraped against her already raw skin.

“Sorry,” came the gruff reply, although she knew she ought to have been the one apologising. She hadn’t been looking where she was going. Her mind had been on the watcher at the gate.

A large hand appeared in front of her face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She ignored his hand and scrambled to her feet. The man wore a luminous yellow T-shirt which distracted from his unshaven face and dark eyes. In the distance, she heard the distinctive metallic squeak of the pedestrian gate as it swung open – or was that her imagination?

A chill slid down her spine. She turned, afraid to look but knowing she had to. Her deepest fear was realised. The tall black man had entered the park, but there was no sign of the Mercedes.  

“That looks pretty bad.” The jogger stared at her jeans where blood had seeped through from her grazed knee.

“I’m okay.”

And she was off again. Every second counted. She had to get undercover before he reached her. 

Mia turned off the path and sprinted up the gentle slope, past a herd of unsuspecting deer, towards the grove of trees. She was painfully aware of how exposed she was, and it didn’t help that the moon had risen big and round, bathing the park in its bright, silvery glow. The man following her would have no trouble seeing which way she went. 

Much of the interior of the park was covered in bracken. She had been told this was where the deer hid their babies until they were old enough to fend for themselves. It grew like wildfire and was almost impossible to contain. Stinging nettles and thistles often competed with the bracken for space and resulted in a tangled mesh of foliage that was thick and impenetrable. Perfect to hide in.

Once she reached the protection of the trees, she veered to the right, then to the left, trying to make it as hard as possible for the man to follow her. As soon as she was in deep enough, she crouched down and buried into the bracken. Thank goodness she wore jeans and ankle boots. She pulled her jacket sleeves down over her damaged hands to protect them from the brambles and crawled forward.

Inch by inch, she burrowed deeper into the bracken until her whole body was completely hidden. The foliage rustled around her as tiny creatures sensed her presence, but she refused to dwell on what else might be sharing her hiding place. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be as deadly as the man out there.

Less than a minute later, she heard someone approach. Heavy footsteps, a man’s, accompanied by rapid breathing. She tensed. Was it him? She didn’t dare risk a peek. She huddled in the foetal position, still as a field mouse, trying to silence her own breathing. Had she crawled in far enough?

The man stuck something into the bracken, a stick maybe, to pull apart the branches. He was searching for her. Had he seen her scramble in here? No, he couldn’t have. She’d been veiled by the trees.

The rustling shifted farther away as the man moved on. He didn’t know where she was. Mia let out a metered sigh. Now that she wasn’t in imminent danger, she had a chance to think about what had happened, and the more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Why were these men coming after her? She couldn’t identify anyone; the car windows had been blacked out. She hadn’t even noticed a licence place. The first she’d glimpsed of the occupants of the car was when the passenger had climbed out and stared at her. Why hadn’t they driven off and left her alone? 

She thought of the poor dead cyclist lying in the gutter and supressed a sob. Had anyone found him yet, or was he still there staring at the blackened sky? Oh, God, it was too terrible for words. If only she could call Fernando, but her phone was in her jacket pocket, along with the dead man’s wallet, where she’d hastily shoved them before the Mercedes had come after her. She was too scared to move in case she made a noise and gave her hiding place away. The man was still hunting her, she could hear his footsteps on the twigs and rotting leaves. Every now and then, he’d come closer and she’d hold her breath, but then, he’d drift off again and search somewhere else.

Mia had no idea how long she lay huddled in that position. It felt like hours but was probably only minutes.

Then, he spoke. It was a foreign language. Not English. Not Italian, French, or Spanish for she knew those – she had a good ear for languages. It wasn’t Eastern European or Russian, either. African, maybe?  The lyrical rhythm interspersed by a series of short tongue-clicks made her think she was right.

The call only lasted a few minutes, but by the tone of his voice, she could guess what he was saying. He couldn’t find her. He was agitated, annoyed. Would he give up or get reinforcements? Surely, she wasn’t worth all this trouble? She bit her lip and prayed that soon this nightmare would be over and she could go back home, to Fernando.

With night having fallen, the temperature plummeted. Her jacket didn’t offer much in the way of warmth – it was more of a fashion item – and the cold was beginning to seep in. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering and wished she’d worn her ski-jacket instead, all fleece-lined and cosy. She remembered the last time she’d worn it, in Bulgaria with Fernando on that budget ski trip. They’d been in love back then, everything had seemed magical. Not like now. Now their relationship was hanging by a thread. The memory bought tears to her eyes as she hugged her knees to her chest. 

The footsteps passed her way again, then petered off into the distance. Was he leaving? Hardly daring to hope, Mia stayed huddled in her hiding place for another twenty minutes – just to be safe – than carefully peered out of the bracken. The coast was clear! She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her phone, and with trembling fingers, dialled Fernando’s number.

It rang.

Please pick up…

It diverted to voice-mail.

No! Where was he? He couldn’t still be mad at her, could he?  

She had to tell him what had happened. He’d know what to do. 

She stumbled through the trees in the dark, tripping over molehills and clumps of foliage, trying to decide which way to go. The leafy canopy above filtered out the moonlight, so it was pitch black in the wood. Branches came out of nowhere and scraped her face. Tree trunks, with roots like thick ropes, jumped out at her. In the end, she paused under a large oak to think.

The obvious and quickest route out of the park was back the way she’d come, but he might be waiting for her at the gate. Or she could head towards the other side of the park and look for another pedestrian gate. It would be slow going in the dark, but there was bound to be one. Turnstiles were scattered all around the perimeter. She chose the second option. 

Her phone rang, making her jump. The shrill ringtone echoed off the surrounding trees, sounding inordinately loud in the evening silence. A nearby fox scurried away.

Shit.

She flicked it onto silent and flattened herself against the bark.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

If that had happened while she’d been hiding in the bracken, she’d have been a dead woman.

She glanced at the screen. Phil, the manager of The Old Ship calling to find out where she was. It was unlike her to miss a shift. He’d be concerned and pissed off in equal measure. It was Saturday night. A replacement at this hour would be hard, if not impossible, to find.

Waves of weariness flowed through her, along with a sense of disbelief at the randomness and inconvenience of it all. How could this be happening again? It wasn’t fair. She’d had enough running. When she’d got to England five years ago, she’d thought it was over. That she was finally safe. No need to look over her shoulder anymore.

Then this had to happen.

Now, she was on the run again, fleeing for her life, but this time she had no idea from whom. She sighed and slid to the ground, the phone still in her hand. Going to the police was out of the question, which left her with only one option.

Fernando.

He had helped her disappear once before.

He could do it again.

Next Chapter: Chapter Two